


heliotropic

by coffeencat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But he's trying, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Communication Issues, Crowely discovers Internet, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves his Houseplants (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Low Self-Esteem, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Plants Talk Therapy, Post-Canon, Projection, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Recovery, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Wings, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), a bit hypomanic, all the clishes, artless swears, can read either way, it's a warning, just briefly mentioned, lots of comfort, or just stressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-01 11:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeencat/pseuds/coffeencat
Summary: Crowley tries to deal with life in the aftermath of a botched Apocalypse, take care of things and maybe even himself in the process.The careless words of his angel in the last days of the World made his already shaky self-esteem a bit more wobbly and the sight of fire still causes his knees to go weak, so what?Sometimes to help others you have to help yourself first. And believing you deserve the good things takes effort and courage, especially since your whole life near everybody went out of their way to convince you otherwise. But Crowley will be damned (again) if he lets his own shortcomings get in the way of protecting all he holds dear.Meanwhile, Aziraphale, finally free from Heaven's partyline, examines their relationship in the new light. Will the demon finally figure out that it is his choices, not the expectations set for him that define him, or will the angel beat him to it? Either way, together they might just work it out.A collection of events with all the cliches everybody already wrote, but I still wanted some.





	1. books

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by [Owls_and_snakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owls_and_snakes/). Sad attempts at English and even worse attempts at jokes are all on me.

If Crowley wasn't... well, Crowley, he would have grinned. As it stood, only the cheerful drumming of the fingers on the Bentley's frame betrayed his mood. Quite angelic - pun very much intended. It matched the Sun, glinting off the polished surfaces, drowning the World in light. 

The Armageddidn't looked good on him - especially the didn't part. The new freedom form overseers of Down Under (and Up Above) was certainly worth celebrating. And if there were beings, which could use some more tempting to enjoy it fully... then, coincidentally, he was on his way. The basketfull of angel's favorite treats rested on the seat next to him equally on accident. _You're My Best Friend_ blaring off the empty recorder was all on the Bentley, because at least she loved Crowley back. 

The demon liked to think he learned his lessons. Since clandestine trips to the stars did not fly well with his angel he could tone it down to an acceptable level. No, he could. Really. It was better this way. It was better, than to let the angel closer then he was ready to be, closer then he wanted to, on a drunken whim or tender feelings of one evening, and be left alone, with guilt and anguish and mess, alone to put back the pieces. Over millennia, they slipped from time to time. And they both know who, more often than not, paid the price.

But Crowley felt not quite in equilibrium lately. Not quite up to it. There was also a small possibility that, as good as his mood was, if he heard another dismissal he might break down in some dark corner under the nearest table, and that would just be embarrassing. Aziraphale know what he wanted - he yelled it out in the middle of the street, after all. The demon was currently more determined to keep what he had, namely his angel, happy, even if beyond the reach. 

Wining and dining was their routine since times immemorial. Nothing Aziraphale ever would complain about.

Parking Bentley haphazardly on the street corner Crowley patted his darling on the mask and sauntered into probably the oldest, and most certainly the most important bookshop in Soho. Two out of three people occupying the shop has thrown his dramatic entrance a glance (one with extra eyeroll dropped in). The corner of snake's lips lifted. What was a show without an audience. Though there existed just one being whose opinion mattered, currently nowhere in sight.

Crowley frowned - because he did not pout, ever. The comfy clutter that filled the antique bookstore made it impossible to peer deeper among the shelves, even if he could feel the angel right there. So much for a grand entrance. Well, he could at least entertain himself with slithering in soundlessly.

Before he took another step the woman in a binocles, hummingbird in her salt-and-pepper hair, approached the register stand. Her expression, way too determined for demon's liking, flickered, when she noticed nobody manned it. The grip on one of Aziraphale's prized first editions tightened.

Well, that just won't do. Crowley chucked his jacket on a chair with flourish and slid behind the desk, lounging against it in a mess of long limbs. If anything, it drove the point _at home_ across.

'It's not for sale,' he declared the moment a woman opened her mouth.

She bristled, 'Excuse me?'

'This book. It's not for sale.'

'You didn't even look at it!'

Crowley smiled nastily, 'I saw enough. It's reserved.'

She eyed him, suspicious, but not surprised. The bookshop had a peculiar reputation after all. 'Why wasn't it in the reserved section, then?'

He had no patience for it today, really. Not just for the Hell of it. What were these people thinking, trying to make away with Aziraphle's things?

Quickly, he stroke, near-ripping it out of her grasp. He slapped it on top of the book tower behind the counter which quaked precariously. It stilled under his glare.

'Well, it is now. Off you go, Lady. We're closing for today.'

She gasped at his insolence and Crowley's grin got wider. Her lips thinned into a line. 'You... I'll never shop here again!'

He snorted. Good riddance. 'Don't let me stop you.'

With a huff she beelined for the exit. The door snapped closed behind her with a happy jingle. One out, two to go.

'Well? Anybody elsse wants to buy a book?' If his aura turned a little menacing, who could blame him - it was currently covering for the horns and pitchfork. Which he didn’t have. 

The closest of clients blinked his way, a bit disoriented by the change in ambiance and sudden shiver that passed over his spine. He shelved back the volume he was browsing with uttermost care.

The student in the corner seemed too engrossed in lecture and brooding to hear him, and for sure not buying anything. Crowley let him be.

He sauntered to the door, flipped the sign closed, and made his way to the backroom.  
The muffled sound of sniffling froze him mid-step.

' --that... that despicable, two-faced, lying... good-for-nothing, useless waste of space! How could...'

'Now, it hurts me too, dear. But some things are a part of ones nature. You cannot change it, no matter how much you try. Sometimes it's just better to... let it go. Cast aside illusions. The greatest lies, we all tell ourselves. We can always find happiness... elsewhere.'

Weird. Crowley was pretty sure Aziraphale was still talking, soothing and heartbroken. Yet, the ringing in his ears muffled all other sound, disturbing it beyond recognition.

'A part of once nature.' Tender voice mocked. 'No matter how do you try.'

It echoed, rattling against the empty cavern of his skull. Over. And over. Was that what even his angel though? That some things were only good to cast aside? Beyond fixing?  
He thought… dared to he wish, that now, on their own side, it wouldn’t matter. Would not come between them anymore, not like it did all these times when he did his best, his absolute best, and still ended labeled a demon. Which he was. No better than any of them, in the end. Not close enough to being good, to earn anything more than generic angelic lovingkindness (even if Aziraphale was the only angel in existence to ever wield it). Why did he think he deserved anything, anyway? Greedy and entitled, who did he think he was?

He snapped on instinct, running before he knew it, shame coursing through him like a fever, and why did he even bother, why did he even dare to show up, again and again, as if it could change anything?

Sudden crash shook the windows and he fell gracelessly, colliding with a first solid furniture in his way. It hurt. Dazed, he made no motion to move. A halo of golden-white curls peaked out of the shop's depth.

'Crowley!' Angel mixed joy with exasperation so well. If anything, he looked delighted to see him - or was he? Maybe the demon just saw what he wanted to see - he was, at the core, a creature of deception, after all.

'Crowley? Dear boy, are you alright?'

The demon swallowed nervously. He had to say something. Anything. 'There's dust on your floor.' 

Internally, he cringed. Externally, his fingers danced over the surface, leaving one or two near-innocent runes in their place, shit-eating smirk pasted on his face.

Angel fidgeted in embarrassment, while eyeing the floor with undisguised curiosity as if he saw it for the first time.

'Oh, my goodness... Guess I've been busy lately, with the end of the world and other distractions.'

Tactfully, Crowley did not mention that the brand-Apocawasn't-new shop barely had the time to gather that much dirt.

'What other distractions?' he asked instead, mouth suddenly dry. The angel's cheeks dimpled, a picture of pure innocence, as if he didn’t know what he was doing to him. 

'Well, you, of course.'

And when Aziraphale smiled at him like this, and extended his hand to help him off the floor, he could almost pretend it wasn't in his nature to be beyond helping.


	2. hastur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's interpersonal connections are difficult to navigate, as it happens when you're occasionally manic and have an odd relation to violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I was thinking. Let's hope it's at least... legible if not in-character.  
Despite what it may look like, connected to previous one. Let's pretend it's a pentaptych.

The books, brilliant stacks of them, glowed, scorched, rose up in ashes under his feet. 

'Aziraphale! Where are you?' he yelled only because he knew the answer.

Wood, drapes, ceiling crashed over his head, over cramped corridors. 

Not here. Nowhere. 

Flames and smoke filled up the universe, and the room was empty. There was nothing, just the scream, and fire burning through him, smelling of brimstone. A mad harsh chuckle rang around, vibrating. It continued even when Crowley ripped out of nightmare, terror and a name still on his lips. 

'Pathetic,' a looming figure spat at him, wiping nonexistent tears of mirth between chuckles. 'Look at you, bawling brat. Beggin'. Fuckin' beggin'.'

Hastur giggled, a sound of a saw on metal, before he spat again.

'You're disgusting trash, Crawly. That's what you ended Ligur for? To be an angel's slut? Oh, Aziraphale!' he mocked and took a long sip from the bottle he carried. 

Suddenly furious at desecrating angel's name in Hastur's mouth, at how dirty it sounded, Crowley broke through shock with a feral hiss, fangs extended. 

Hastur jumped back, stumbling. He was still too stupid too shut up. 'Think he will save you? That you're worth saving? You’re damned, like the rest of us. Noone's here, Crawly. Did he get bored with you already? Forgot his new toy? No wonder. Useless wreck like you.'

Gritting teeth, forcing mind to halt and focus, Crowley snapped and materialized on his feet just behind his visitor's back.

'Do you pray too, these days? Beg for hugs?' Hastur did not notice. He chuckled again, at empty bedcovers, and from the sway and odour the snake realized the other demon was utterly wasted. 

Not thinking, he slammed pale asshole into the wall by the throat. The chuckle changed into near-cheerful gurgle.

'How did you get in?'

Fool. Idiot. He should have wards set-up again. Painted sigils, craved the doorways, replaced holy water, everything Adam didn’t replace. He thought fighting paranoia will make him more... even. Functional. Less angel-reliant, more angel-worthy. Not a burden to be around. 

Hastur's corporation turned vaguely bluish in the face. The lizard tried to take last swing on him with a bottle. Crowley stepped back, watching him crumble. 

'Well? How are you here?' he aimed for menacing hiss.

Nothing he could do would save him and his dignity now. Hastur saw him sobbing. Azira's name, at that. Into his bloody pillow. Any upper hand he had, relying on empty blef of invincibility, gone. He was done in Hell. 

The humiliation crept over his face, along with nausea, and protective layer of scales.  
He grabbed the glasses with haste that almost broke his nose. 

Worse - he will have the whole of Hosts on his head any day now. Unless… Luckily Hastur was too out of it to care what he was saying and to whom.

'Don’now.' He slurred. 'Got drunk. Thought 'should've murdered the bastard'. Here, last time. Though really hard. And was here. You pathetic wretch. You deserved it. Always awful demon, too slick, neve' doing the job right. Now look at you. Traitor. Wretched, at angel's lap. Pity the water didn't boil you. Would love to hear you scream like you just did.'

There was really no time to get more mortified. Too high stakes. 

Crowley knelt down next to slumped demon and returned his grin, every inch as lunatic. ‘Hope it was worth the trouble. Now, get out like you came in.'

He hoped he wouldn't. 

Hastur croaked another mocking laugh, and too another swing with bottle. It smashed against his own teeth, but he didn't notice, just relished the drink. 'No. Make me, if you can, angel lover. Or have you gone sof-'

He ripped at Hastur's throat without warning. Once. Twice. Fangs pierced paper-thin skin. The oily blood gushed down his chin. The taste made him sick. 

The other demon shook, tremors passing him as his hands, now free, scrambled for Crowley's own throat. The nails hit and dug into his shoulder, uncoordinated. He struggled some more, longer, before going very very still. 

It will take him some time to explain this discorporation away. And truth will get him in trouble. Big trouble. Hopefully, it would be enough for him to keep his trap shut, but you never know with idiots. 

Crowley waited till the mortal body turned to dust in his hands, just to be sure. He tried not to think, at least not on Hastur's words. Most of which were true. Or he almost wished they were. He hadn't moved for a very long time. 

When he finally did, he dashed straight for Aziraphale's. 

***

The city lights gave impression of earlier hour, but it was already late evening. Crowley got hold of himself on the way, with brand-new-identical clothes and impeccable hairstyle. He arrived on a particular Soho's streetcorner to the dark door and cold insides.

The demon had a rare knack for locating angels in distress. It served him well over the centuries, whether summoning him across the Channel or tearing from the decades of slumber. Tonight no such immediate angels were found.

He kept telling himself that. It worked, a little.

The familiar lock let him in without complaints. Almost a good thing Aziraphale wouldn't be here. Not in time to stop him.

He set to work at once. His senses kept the tabs on troubled angels anyway.

***

'What on God's Green Earth... Crowley!?'

Aziraphale had the gall to look taken aback at his presence, as if he himself had ever kept normal hours for anything. Crowley followed suit, because he was a demon and J-pocrisy was his middle name.

'Angel! It's midnight, where the hell were you?!'

'I... the business took longer then expected.'

There's something off in the way he spelled business. Crowley almost seethed at the thought of his angel having a company this late and forgave him only because he came back unharmed. (It was a blatant lie. Turns out, he couldn't hold a grudge against Aziraphale if his life depended on it.)

'I have a right to be worried,' he grumbled, defensive.

Awareness of how unreasonably he was acting felt like pouring salt on the wound and rubbing it in with glee. In dire need of distraction he moved to finish the pattern. 

Aziraphale leaned over, inspecting the windowsill.

'What is this...' He reached forward, only to have Crowley frantically grasp his arm.

'A precaution. Don't touch.'

The demon pushed him out of the way, long fingers dancing over wood, leaving traces of energy, weaving a too-familiar symbol of Aziraphale's own real name, Enochian one, into the shape of the wards till they were one.

'There. All done, you can see it now.'

Aziraphale did. Had any other demon, or even angel (like Gabriel, he shuddered), managed to get hold of his sigil, the essence of all that he was, he would quail in terror. Somehow, he felt perfectly calm and safe with it in Crowley's hands.

Crowley's, who moved seamlessly to covering his wall with new layer of 'precautions', one over another he must've just finished. Paler than white, perspiration at his temples, but still coiled as tight as the proverbial devil in the box. Trapped.

'You're not well.' He regretted it the moment words left him, the moment serpent's lovely face twisted into exasperation too much alike hurt.

'Yes, I'm all wrong, heard it al-'

But Aziraphale didn't even hear him anymore, eyes fixed on his blackened mouth. 'Is that blood? Are you bleeding!?'

Understanding, the demon licked his lips and promptly wiped it with disgust. Of all the traces left…

'Talk to me, Crowley.'

It sounded like an order. 'I just murdered my drunk-to-obviousness ex-coworker, because I couldn't handle a few too well-aimed insults. They were about you, by the way.' That would go over splendidly. Just in time to remind Aziraphale what he was fraternizing with. If he ever wanted to reconsider that, Crowley was too selfish to make it any easier. The angel was all he had, after all.

'Bit my tongue. Nothing to talk about.'

'Is that why you appeared randomly at midnight, unannounced, turning my shop upside down with enough overpowered sigils to mimic a celestial plane?'

Demon face flickered, before it shut down completely, a mask of cool nonchalance he showed the world in place. Hands finally stilled, he leaned over the furniture, leveling the bookkeeper with a cool glance.

'... just trying to help, angel. Sssorry for imposition. Won't happen again.' He was already on his way to the door.

Aziraphale was at loss. He didn't mean to accuse of anything, only for Crowley to stop lying to his face. Lately, every time he tried to make the demon open up to him, to trust him with whatever was tormenting him - and it clear as day was - he ended up hurting him instead.

He had predicted that now, after the Apocalypse-that-never-was, they will finally be able to get closer, be together the way he - well, he always assumed they - wanted to. But Crowley seemed wary of him, always taking his words the worst way possible.

'You're... I appreciate what you're doing, dear -' he tried again. 

The door barely clicked, closing behind his beloved friend. The insides were dark and cold.

Next time they meet, they will be all good and pretend the evening never happened. The strategy served them well over the millennia. Instead of relieved, the realization left the angel pensive.


	3. plants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley talks to his plants in fit of self-reflection. It helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's basically in monodrama, with brief interludes of Aziraphale. And a wishful-thinking psychobabble. Don't do it at home.  
I really, really hope it's clear I was aiming at series characterization?

_‘He had heard about talking to plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, and thought it was an excellent idea.’_

Now, in the gray hours of the morning, pouring himself into the computer screen, he was beginning to reconsider. The catalyst arrived last week, in a form of a particularly miserable fern.

'The poor thing didn't quite take to my shop, I think.' Doomed him Aziraphale, showing off a little potplant. 'Overabundance of dust and dry air must have done it in. I know you will take much better care of it, my dear. You always had quite the green fingers. '

Crowley would jump into the fire had the angel asked him to -- he, in fact, did. Trice just recently, and without any asking involved. Dangerously aware of the fact, already berating his own idiocy, he leaned over the counter with ExasperatedSigh(TM), examining closely the sorry state of the plant.

Well, it probably was sorry when it arrived under Aziraphale's care. The current unique brand of hopelessly destitute, simultaneously shriveled and rotten, could only by achieved by long periods of drought interspersed with guilty overindulgence that only ethereal, timeless entity could ever think reasonable.

'Behold, the Guardian of Eden. How come The Garden survived in there, with your skills? Small wonder Eve didn't actually debark the entire Knowledge Tree. ' Well, a bit of a stretch, but it was neither here or there. Very here, however, appeared an adorable dusting of pink that made its way into pale cheeks, much to Crowley's delight.

'I was the Guardian of the Gate, not the Shrubbery!'

Ever so indignant. The demon grinned wider.

'So you were. Had a sword and all the gear. Wasn't it nice, seeing it again? It only took the end of the World for that. Totally worth it, if you ask me.'

Aziraphale went a very fashionable shade of mortified scarlet. It contrasted with the tufts of his hair in a way that made Crowley feel a little giddy. On the angels part, the demon simply knew him too well - the habit with which he handled his — no, War's sword — must not have escaped the notice. 

Principality sniffled, an uppity attitude back in place.

'Well, of course, if you don't want it, you could have just said so.' He declared with faux righteousness, taking a step back with a pot and watching Crowley strike madly to grab it out of his hands.

'No! It's mine now! You offered, I'm keeping it.'

It took the demon far too long a moment, for an occult creature which remembered the stars being set alight, to realize he fell for the oldest trick in the book. He groaned. Why did he keep doing this to himself? Aziraphale smiled at him cheekily, dimples showing. It had a strange air of apology. 

'Thank you, my dear boy. I'm sure it will be well and safe with you.'

And snake's coldblooded, burned-out heart didn't even have the decency to regret a thing.

***

A gift from Aziraphale got itself a front seat in his plants’ He- err... hall. Perfect shade, accurate humidity, soil exchanged for a good measure - you couldn't trust people even with plants these days. It's new companions, lush and springy, stood to attention the moment he entered to deposit the addition to the collection.

If he didn't know better he would think they were showing off in front of him, or some other nonsense. Deep down, he knew they were just paralyzed.

The fern wasn't quite to his standard - yet. Not even his say-goodbye-to-your-friends standard. But it was Azira's and therefore perfect, and he promised, and well... he was willing to grant it some adjustment period.

'Behave.' he told it, pouring the last water ration carefully, pointing a finger at it for a good measure.

'Now, to the rest of you... UGLY, USELESS BUNCH OF WEEDS. YOU ARE PUTTING NO EFFORT!' He dropped into menacing whisper. 'You think I’ll hesitate to throw your rotten lives out? Still have some hope? WATCH ME! ONE SINGLE BAD MOVE! ONE! AND YOU ARE OUT!

The leaves trembled collectively, a quiver passing through a rich wall of robust green. Satisfied that they know their place and have motivation to do their best Crowley brushed off his hands - a job well-done. At least he gave them a fair warning, unlike somebodies. Well. Somebody. 

Passing he took the last glance at the faulty composition. All ruined by little bunch of sticks. Crooked at that. The nerve of them. 

He grabbed the pot to righten it to the left. The tiny dry thing inside was shaking, tremors already passing fragile leaves. It really should not make an impression on him. His hand trembled. 

It wasn't even here an hour. The plant, that angel gave under his care looked nothing short of miserable compared to how it was before, which was a feat in itself. And apparent proof of his capabilities - turning everything worse. Shit, shit, shit. Shit. He really was a fuck-up, wasn't he? He couldn't keep care of it for a one single day. Not even a fucking day!

At the hateful expression on his face, gouging emotions under the surface, the shrub shook again, only to still completely when his slit eyes fell on it again.

'No... not you. Didn't really mean it...' Crowley murmured, trying to reverse the damage. 'Not you, sweetheart. You're doing ok...'

He reached out to stroke the last frond, but the leaf shrank the moment his fingers neared it. Feeling like an eternal disappointment he was, Crowley gave up on traumatizing it further and slinked out of the corridor.

That led directly to his current condition. Turns out stopping a habit, even an innocent one, was harder then it appeared. It directed him to discovery that he felt marginally better after yelling at misbehaving greenery. They deserved it, sure - but letting off some steam simply felt good, the way driving Bentley at incredible angel-ruffling speed did. Took an edge off.

The predicament presented itself in that tiny curling fern had trouble distinguishing at whom Crowley was screaming. He tried moving (it flinched, and he broke a little) to another room, but it looked horribly lonely in the vast space of the flat and a fresh leaf it sprouted started to mottle a little. His bedside might have worked, but he wasn't partial to sleeping lately. Sleeping, or candles or anything else that provided the fire imagery.

The only solution was just to... stop. At least with the shouting. And it wasn't working. Hence the pair of snake eyes, unblinking, glued to the screen from dusk till down till dusk again, frantically looking. Finding. Wincing at every too-accurate article, after glaring through the screen didn't discorporate it into a wet puddle (again).

Projection was such an ugly word.

***

'...wouldn't you agree, Crowley?'

How did that even happen to him? He was always so careful, to see things as they are, not to lie to himself, not to hope for nothing --

'Crowley.'

'Yes, angel.'

\-- especially to see the dark, ugly unpleasant things. The truths others shied away from.  
So how could he not notice this ongoing pantomime of his Fall, tormenting innocent plants that depended on him for survival like some angry, vengeful god.

'Very well. Let's go.'

'What?' he ripped away from the very private pity party for what felt like an unnecessarily long amount of time.

Pale blue eyes, flickering with impatience and a bit of hurt, met him straight on. Oh. Now he made an actual angel run out of patience. Not that his angel ever had much of it, so maybe it didn't count as an accomplishment. When did Azira finally get to dinner, anyway?

'Since you just declared you're bored with my company, there's no need for you to pretend any longer. We can just leave and go separate ways, since I'm obviously disturbing you.'

Crowley opened his mouth to deflect or deny but something gripped him by the suddenly very human throat and no sound left it.

'A-angel...' he hissed out at last, in a near stammer.

Aziraphale's eyes suddenly went alert, impatience melting into concerned consideration as he reached out, taking Crowley's hand in his.

'I'm sorry my dear. I didn't mean it so seriously. It was pretty calloused for a tease, given the recent events.'

Angel swallowed, eyes stricken in a way his voice was tight, way that despite the relief and soft touch made Crowley's chest hurt.

' -'t's fine, angel.' There was something very grim in his companion's expression, and he wanted it gone. He realized Azira was still holding his hand, so he weaved his fingers through his in reassurance before the angel had a chance to take it back. 

What else was he about to say, really? That he sometimes got tired of being always an option, never a preference? How could he demand that of him? And he did demand, begged even. Always a demon, always too greedy. Too greedy to be just acquaintances, or friends, or whoever it is that spends time together for respite. To be content with whatever Azira was willing to give him. But he was trying, dammit.

'What was it I've really agreed to before?'

He got his reward: the angel took on a happy glow that looked much better on him.

'I'm glad you asked. Accidentally, we have acquired a pair of tickets for today's spectacle. Not a premiere, but a cast we have yet to discuss. As you see... it was all much ado about nothing.'

***

When Crowley demanded his plants to be, for the lack of better word, spotless, he did it with their best interest in mind. And with his best interest. They were, in a way, an extension of him, and as such they had to be held to a certain bare-minimum standard, the way his flat, Bentley, and he himself was. Trying to make them presentable so nobody could find fault with them was crucial. Because if they were not-good-enough, somebody would hurt them without mercy.

Somehow it did not add up that this somebody was Crowley himself. Causing one-time bouts of harmless terror was one thing, but constantly living in it? There were reasons Crowley did not visit Hell at leisure. Other then the smell, of course.

Good thing he never had the nerve to get rid off permanently of poor, spotty-leaved bushes, allowing them to go wild in apartment's private garden. He though it his failing, at the time.

Because apparently the whole projection thing was about him being a failure. According to funny-webpage thinking that was his first mistake. Yet, how did it go? 'Some things are part of ones nature'? An angel, a fallen angel, now a cast-out demon. Could he be cast out twice, or was it actually an upgrade this time? He had no idea what he was supposed to measure up to anymore.

After what Heaven has done to Aziraphale, had tried to do to him, the best and kindest and most angelic from all of them... the only one angelic among them… He couldn't say being thrown out off the ranks bothered him anymore. Loosing Her love maybe, if he ever had it. (If She ever loved anybody). The sheer terror of Falling. But not the Heaven, empty and loveless as it was. 

It didn't solve his hall orangery problem. Clearly, taking out his potential inadequacy on the greenery was a mistake. Living beings were prone to these. At least that's what humanity observed and collectively agreed on. If he could just get it to sink in he would be good to go. Why could he not understand a one single sentence he objectively agreed with? What kind of idiot... oh.

Ok, maybe the guy who thought up there might be the pattern in how he treats his plants and himself was onto something.

He scrolled through another page. With Hell and Heaven out of the picture, he will have to make his own standard, again. (He had practise. And Azira. Couldn't he just be whatever Aziraphale wanted? The internet said NO.) 

His flowers deserved better from him. They were, after all, perfectly good flowers, even when they had a yellowed leaf here or there. That's why he had no heart to trash them in the first place. And to think they were trying to cheer him up when he sulked over angel. He wanted... he guessed, he wanted them to be happy. With him. And maybe if he could make his plants happy...

Hope was still a foolish thing - another four-letter word he refused to hurt himself with any longer. He had work to do. 

***

A lot of humanity's greatest achievements, breakthrough ideas, near all cultural accomplishments, hinged, quite heavily, on a fact they were ultimately human. Whoever would have thought.

Certainly not Crowley. He just spend somewhere between a quarter or a small eternity fighting fits of hysterical laughter and gleeful tears if front of his subtropical exhibition.  
Last chance. He opened the book at random and with morbid curiosity leaned over affirmation of the day. Or the minute.

'I am...' He burst out in a sound that might have been a sob or a giggle. The book went flying almost cheerily, hitting the wall artlessly and scattering off to the top of the pile.

He was definitely not blessed by the God. 

'What a useless drivel,' he said to the plants in front of him, rocking on the back legs of the chair. 'The thing is, I am damned. Officially. There's no way around it, no matter what I do. I don't even know what I did, exactly. I just... wanted to know. To understand. Was that my sin? Lack of blind faith? That's... hardly a bad thing, is it? Maybe I didn't fit in Heaven, after all. I would hate to be what it is now, and it never was much better.'

The plants listened, puzzled by the lack of verbal violence. It happened, sometimes, when their caretaker was very sad, but not like this.

'But it hurt. Falling. So terribly hurt. Not only the physical burning, but having a part of you ripped away forever, being left with a hole were the love had been, having all the remaining pieces put together wrong. Not knowing what love was, anymore, until I met the Angel on the Garden walls. And he was., .. perfect. And the Garden was perfect. And how can me or you even compete with that? We're just a bunch of cast offs.

And well... I am damned, but maybe if you know what was good for you, and nobody would see anything wrong with you, maybe you won't. See? Maybe somebody would love you then, because... don't look at me like that. I don't count, I'm a demon, I'm not even supposed to know how to love. Even at being an evil incarnate, I'm a fuck up, see?'

He slammed to the front legs, almost startling himself with a crash, and continued.

'That's why you need to be good, so you don't end up like me. For me you're all good just as you are. But nobody ever sees it that way. Even for an angel, I was the last resort. I don't want you to be last for anybody. You deserve to be taken care of in the best way, and I'm trying, I am! But I managed to even make angel upset, with thinking ahead, and 'going too fast' and I... might be too intense for you too, huh? You would do better with somebody like him, calm and gentle... and...'

His eyes fell on a tiny fern, which was finally getting back some verdant shades, and he froze. 

Aziraphale hadn't taken care of the poor plant properly, either because he didn't care or didn't quite know how. It hit him, a force of neutron stars colliding, ripples of it, gravity waves in space, wrinkles on the pond, fluctuating further and further until nothing felt the same. Over the ages he had come to think of his angel as an impossible standard of kindness. Still shaken, he tried to regain his footing. 

'Ok. Maybe... not Azira. Apparently there's something he's bad at, aside from magic tricks. But somebody patient and responsible. Huh. Apart from books and clothes, he's not very good at taking care of things? Not on purpose, of course... Gets too lost in his own head.'

'Don't worry.' He reached to stroke the plant and this time it did flinch only a little and calmed under his fingers.'I'll take good care of you. You won't have to go back there.'

It shivered gently, but seemed happy, like moving i a spring breeze. The snake plant, not to be outdone, hummed bravely in the background. Shyly, the demon smiled back at them. 

For a while, everything looked safe and calm in his world. Until the day he stumbled upon the scraps Hastur had left behind.


	4. holy water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes a trip to a church for... reasons. Yes, that one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done experimenting with single quotation marks, double from now on.  
Bad style, I know. But since I already flip a POV as I like and will continue to do so, it can't get much worse.  
Enjoy more Crowley angst.

"Damned rainbow!" Crowley hissed, mindlessly. 

A few heads turned sharply to glare at him. He almost cursed out loud again. Additional attention wasn't what he was after.

The interior closed in on him as it was, tall columns, array of hushed voices, silent prayers brought heavensward in a hope they will one day pierce the sky. The array of light scattered across the floor, shimmering along the flow of clouds outside. In a bloody rainbow.

He was as good as dead now. As if the choir of plump cherubs and gaudy golden leaf would not be enough. At least the modern human interpretation will give it proper dramatic sense he can sign under. He know better - he remembered the ruthlessness of Flood good enough. He will perish with an accursed peace sign mocking him. With Her mocking him. 

Nonsensical thought - he knew, just as one day humans will learn, She wasn't bothering to listen. Before the Apocalypse-that-wasn't the knowledge would bitterly twist his mind, now it didn't even earn itself a mental shrug. He was... just done. All he cared about now was that being in the process of what his angel would most probably consider a betrayal of trust worth a few decades of continued absence. At least.

So, Crowley was a coward. What's new under the Sun? But he wasn't about to go asking to find out. It was bad enough the first time. Not now, when they finally... Azira just wouldn't understand. He was only getting used to life without Heaven breathing down his neck and the demon was determined to let him. He will recount the angel everything, eventually, when the mood will be light and all too easy to spoil. Would never keep anything from him. But now, they needed to be safe and what his bookworm didn't know... could hurt him very much in fact. Just not this particular time. 

When it finally occurred to Hastur to really try and take revenge on them, out of boredom caused by Ligur's absence, Crowley will be waiting. It wasn't even a lie! How was he supposed to tell tall about the dreams that plagued him, in nighttime and in broad daylight?

Flames, scorching, burning through him as if he wasn't there, and every time he was too late, perpetually too late, over and over, until he thought it would never end. How would he explain the terror that ate at him to the angel, that didn't flinch in front of Hell's judgement? He couldn't - he wouldn't be left alone on this Earth. Not again. The whole of the Universe would not be big enough to run from himself. He had to be sure.

The sheer hideousness of the church had its silver lining: no heavenly emissary will be taking a leisurely stroll here, not only to feed their ego on kneeling mortals and golden altars. Any Archangel worth his slate suit would shudder with disgust at the design.

Not Aziraphale, of course. His angel would indulgently eye the sculpture, skim over the tasteless marble and light up like the Sun at the one redeeming feature he would undoubtedly find. Then he would notice the demon and it would be the last Crowley would see of him. 

Too late to reconsider.

Briskly, he approached the baptistery, ugly as anything. He squashed the guilt under the desperation, only to have it flare up at the sight of the tartan flask in his grip. Clever, clever mean angel. Packing his death drink into a cute, familiar pattern, begging to reconsider whatever rash act he might be up to. As if Crowley would deprive himself of him, if he could help it.

Taking a deep breath he didn't need, the demon plunged the container into the water, tips of fingers dipping under the surface. It burned, hot as a stove, through layers and layers of latex, and plastic and actual oil over his skin.

It lasted less than a blink, till he wrapped the flask in paper, then in the towel, then in the miracle, drying his hand along the way. A hiss left him, more in temporary relief then in pain.

Maybe he would live after all.

"My dear boy!" He snapped around, hands flailing, container almost slipping through his fingers, despite the body coiling defensively around his treasure in a failed attempt to hide it from the world.

The voice was all wrong.Yet he felt Earth open up under his feet again.

In front of him stood grandfatherly form of a priest. He was smiling at the demon, kind and open, an expression he recognized from one only another face. There was a burning incense in his hand.

First lungful of smoke made him choke. Throat burned, head swirled. He stopped breathing, aiming for the damage control, but nothing could prevent his eyes from tearing up.  
It would be self-preservation to just miracle the man way and run. (Before he thought it he know he would never.)

"I didn't mean to startle you, young man. I just meant to say, if you need some more, we keep the canisters in the sacristy."

Despite the scorching of his feet, of air around him, chill settled in his bones. Canisters of utter destruction, at his fingertips. Offered on a whim. Was it always so, as easy as walking through a door?

Crowley, trying and failing to keep upright, true to his nature, sputtered.

"Ngk...No.. I've got it... enough. I'll be going now. Err... Thank you. Bye!"

"Bless you, son."

Flames burst out, scorching his already-black collar, sooting his already-black immaterial wings. By now almost fragile, on consecrated ground, it hit him like a whip. He snapped his fingers, dousing it with sheer will, pretense forgotten.

Not daring to look back, not to see recognition, horror or something worse in the face of a stranger, he spun and strolled (do not run, do not spoil everything) through the main entrance. High above the portal, the looming centerpiece has drawn him. Nothing like sightseeing when being on fire. 

The pipe organs, Crowley realized. Aziraphale would love it - all polished wood and clear tones. (He was ruined and still wouldn't have it any other way.)

***

Crossing the threshold of his own flat — the one he didn't live in — he'd thrown the flask back in its place.

Well, thrown wasn't the accurate word, but it sounded better than the reality of treating it like a spun glass bauble. Of taking time to look at it, an ultimate weapon and last-resort-salvation in one.

The nonexistence should be a blessing for the damned. Angels seemed to think so. Well, most of them. They were probably just convincing themselves, but Crowley believed it, once. That by Falling, they have forfeited their right to anything the World had to offer. That he had forfeited any right, to all that was good and true. It only recently occurred to him, he didn’t need any right. 

His jaw tightened till teeth gritted. _Shut up and die already_, was it? Not much good and true left in Heaven. Not much he was missing out on. Angels and demons, one lot of them. Certainly worth one another. He was glad to be where he was, who he was, rather than staying one of them. He was almost glad he Fell. 

He had all he ever wanted here. Even if Aziraphale would never feel about him the same way... just being around him, watching him smile, putter through the bookshop and go on with his days... it would have to be enough. It had been, for centuries. It was more than he deserved, anyway. No wonder he got turned down enough times to lose track. (He remembered every single one of them.)

The sudden fatigue crushed him, the fog messing up his thoughts as the tension of a coup had worn off. The pain was starting to settle in. He stood and stumbled, thrashed holiness-reeking everything into a vacuum bag and got rid of it, the very dependable human way. He fell on the bed. Limp and uncoiling, all that was left of him was a mass of adamantine wreaths.

*** 

"-hope you don't mind I let myself in, my dear boy. Missing our date, not responding to the telephone... you got me all worried...Oh!"

Woken up by the noise, the snake stirred. Darkness filled his vision, and he realized he kept his head under the pillows.

"...Crowley?"

He rose smoothly, till he could see a bright blurred shape. It might've been waving at him. Or not.

" 'Ssssory, angel. I mussst have dozzed off for…"

"For goodness sake, Crowley! What happened to your shoes? When do you even wear shoes?"

"Not now, certainly." he flicked his tail in general direction of the visitor, while trying to connect the very things Aziraphale asked about.

Apparently reptile brain had to go. He stretched and contracted, changing skins, very human limbs crossing over duvet.

Oh. He certainly remembered the shoes. And to put effort in not meeting Azira's gaze.

"These things are crisp, dear. What happened?"

He swayed, feigning disinterest, fingers grappling for glasses on a nightstand. "Didn't like 'em. Hurt my feet."

"Clearly,” the Principality's voice was dry. “They are burned on the inside."

Crowley shrugged.

"Do you take me for a complete idiot? Your feet, please."

"If you wanted..."

"No! Stop... doing that! Trying to distract me! I'm trying to help you!"

"Are you sure you're not just yelling at me?"

He was grasping at straws and did not expect Azira to fall silent midword.

"Oh, dear. It does rather seem that way, doesn't it? Forgive me, darling boy. I was just worried, when you didn't show up. And now I know you were up to something and didn't see it fit to tell me... not that you have to, of course. Of course. "

"Hey, angel... Aziraphale. It's not... look, there's nothing to tell. Nothing is happening. Just there was an accident and I had to make sure." Azira's expression tightened, teeth gnawing on the bottom lip.

"If you were in any direct danger — if either of us was — you would tell me, yes?"

"Obviously."

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, dear? Can I help you?"

Crowley was already shaking his head.

"Will you show me your feet, at least?"

The serpent didn't want to make it any more self-evident, but well - Aziraphale wasn't stupid. There were only so many demon-burning things in the world, and so many purposes for the blessed ground.

"Ok."

Angel worked on the burns mostly quietly, huffing over the more serious blisters, a bunch of miracles at hand.

It felt, oddly, relaxing, with an occasional sting he would take for the soft touch a thousand times over.

"Whatever it is, I wish you would trust me."

Only all Crowley had feared, in this case, had already happened. Many times. It wasn't Aziraphale's fault. He simply... learned.

"Do trusst you. Just...you don't always react very well to my ideas, angel."

Aziraphale was acutely aware what a terrible understatement it was. When he was the one at fault, Crowley had always handled him kindly. On the other hand, the more the demon opened up, the more vulnerable made himself, the harder the angel rejected him, backpedaling on them at the last moment. Even when he didn't exactly mean to. Any apology formed in his head felt cheap. As if it could ever be enough for callously throwing away what Crowley had offered him.

"I am aware, dear. I'll endeavor to treat you better. "

"You do, angel. Treat me well. Better than anybody."

"We both know what an awfully low standard that is."

Aziraphale leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to demon's forehead. Crowley made a surprised, confused noise, but did not move away.

"We will order in. Get some rest."

The evening and morning rolled by them, soft and serene. The demon tried very hard not to get used to that.


	5. wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favourite couple finally gets to breathe a little, sit down and talk. Features some angel's wings and hopeful endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last piece, meant to be a tribute to good communication and secure relationships.  
If only I could write one...  
At least they are trying, right?

Aziraphale's attempts at luring the demon back to the bookshop were deemed to be completely useless. Admiring the damsel-in-Bastille level of subterfuge up close would be the highlight of Crowley's existence. He would love to sit back for days, weeks, years and enjoy the growing obscenity and ridicule of the world's best theater performance put on just for him.

It was utterly ruined by a number of factors. First, said attempts were exactly as transparent as the dark, cold gas nebula watched in an infrared bandwidth. The second was the demon himself. What use could it be to attempt the manipulation of the greatest manipulator? Especially when he was a real demon from Hell, going by the name of Crowley, you had him securely warped around your little finger and all you had to do is ask*? Third, also Crowley, was that he liked staying in the bookshop.

(*Of course, it was a monumental overstatement for dramatic purposes. The angel needn't ask at all. A lift of the eyebrow or a pull of lips usually did the trick. No, it didn't count as manipulation. It was... a body-language communication. Angels don't go around manipulating demons into minor favors, what were you thinking?)

Fourth... one thing that Crowley might recently liked more than staying in a bookshop was _fortifying_ the bookshop. From the inside.

See? Useless. But flattering nonetheless.

The demon was knocking on the angel's door, sneaking over dawn-covered floor, before Aziraphale finished the first sentence of meticulously thought out cover story, and wasn't his impatience a shame? He would have been looking forward to seeing these etches. Alas, safety first.

The tension grew in demonic bones as he covered the next surface, less hurried, more deliberate, but not less chaotic or ugly or Crowleish then before. He knew they were necessary. Had all the good arguments lined up, at the end of his sneaky venomous tongue.

Aziraphale looked up from his skewed crochet work, met his eyes and smiled. Smiled as if Crowley was welcome to ruining his home anytime in a fit of manic-panic, as if he could afford to indulge him, and it finally boiled over.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

"You're... I appreciate what you're doing, Crowley. Trying to keep us both safe, as you always do. I have no idea how you got a hold on a half of these."

That was Aziraphale for you - trying to talk him out of his tumultuous feelings, because he couldn't handle seeing anything unhappy. Not even a slug, if he remembered correctly.

Still, a tingle of pride settled in. He felt... valued, maybe, knowing he had accomplished something useful for once. Also the tips of his wannabe-shoes were suddenly very interesting. It must've been the snake pattern.

"Had to get a little more creative, to fit our needs. It's just a stopgap solution. Will come up with a better one, I know we need better, but I have to run a field test on it first. Make sure it does not backfire. Test it against contradictions...", he realized, vaguely, he was rambling and flustered, and under all the nerves, just a little bit preening under praise.

"It's remarkable, dear. Truly." said angel, closer than he should be. 

Trying to be clever Crowley looked for his form in a cabinet's reflection, only to find a pair of pale blue eyes already there, overlooking his shoulder and tracing the recent runework.

"- it's an impressive level of lore even for archangel, let alone... well, you know. A demon, with no access to Heavenly Library. It was never my division, but I don't believe I've seen most of it before. This combination... is it fire-proofing my Imperial samovar?"

"Hellfire-proofing mainly, angel. Better not take your chances."

The angel sighed.

"Better not. How high the odds it's still capable of working?"

Wouldn't you like to sit down? Tell me more about the details? I've recently acquired a nice bottle of vintage rose, you have worked hard enough for today. There way so many things Aziraphale wanted to say, could have said instead, but he had to go and run his mouth again. Even he disbelieved how disastrous his impulse control was.

"Not that it needs to be, I never use it anymore. It's a decorative piece, so really...", he took a breath. Crowley's golden eyes, reflected back at him, were amused and sparkling and soft with unguarded affection.

"Of course it still conducts heat, angel. You can use it to your pure-feathered heart's content."

"Oh."

He had never felt so utterly seen and loved, in all his idiocy and petty cares. Nobody could hold a candle to that, to whatever Crowley meant for him. Did for him. As a punch to the solar plexus, a lover's caress, soft and shocking, a _deja vu_ of that day during Blitz hit him.

"Angel?... Angel, did I break you? I can still make it unboilable..."

"Just for the record, I'd go to the Alpha Centauri with you. If you still wanted me to."

"Ngk. But! But you love Earth, angel! I.. I love Earth too, it was never... I never wanted you to. To abandon everything you care for. I just thought..."

And Crowley broke their eye contact again, carded fingers through hair in frustration and forced himself to meet Aziraphale's surprisingly steady stare. His throat felt tight, but he forced the words through, they needed to be said.

"I panicked. With all of it gone, as good as already gone. I wanted you to pick me. Just this once."

Angel looked down in shame, fiddling with his vest buttons.

"And I failed, dear. I had deluded myself, purposefully blind to Heaven's misconduct over ages. I would rather pretend they're in the right, than deal with the fact, that to do the truly right thing meant to oppose them. Go against everybody whose word I took for moral compass. It was...overwhelming, after a lifetime of habit, of effort put in ignoring any and all facts that contradicted it. Including all that you did and meant to me. I am a coward, -no, please, let me speak, I always was, I was terrified, the World was turning upside-down as soon as it was Ending, you were as self-assured as ever, as if you didn't need me and... and I failed you. I hurt you, I knew I was hurting you, even when I didn't mean what I said and said it anyway. I was wrong and I'm sorry."

"Hush. You weren't all wrong, angel. I am a demon, after all, I am, by nature, selfish." 

Aziraphale cringed at the heap of times he used that very argument into Crowley's face, usually when he run out of any others, but did not interrupt.

"No allegiance left to Hell, Heaven would never take me back, not that I would let them, and, Aziraphale, I couldn't imagine us going against eachother in the Final Battle for Nothing. I wanted us on the same side and neither would do. Safe far away, and to Heav- Hel- oh, Somewhere with all you believed in or wanted or cared for, as long as we could stay together. I was terrified of making you choose... and then you did. I never had your Faith, never..."

How could Crowley go straight from admitting Aziraphale realized his worst nightmare to… to this? Self-blaming? 

"You had plenty of Faith, dear. In me. In us. In Earth as well. And you were right all along."  
The silence that settled for a second was comfortable like a favorite blanket. The small smile on Crowley looked genuine, crinkling his eyes, and only now Aziraphale has realized he hadn't seen it - had been missing it - for a very long time.

Then demon's brows furrowed, confused.

"Yeah. Looks like we made it. More luck than brains, this time. Most of the time. "

"Now, let's not presume. I wouldn't put it to a simple coincidence, that would be -"

"Oh, no, don't! Do not-"

"-ineffable, dear. Ineffable fortune," he glared at Crowley with regular dose of snottiness, ruined by the tenderness he couldn't keep off his face. Then he remembered he didn't have to and stopped trying.

"I have a nice bottle of rose, saved just for us. Would you like to sample a taste? You've worked yourself to the marrow enough for one evening."

" 'To the bone', angel. Why do you even insist...oh, you know what, nevermind."

They settled on familiar coach, one demonic snap, and the wine sloshed happily in crystal glasses. Gold rim engraved in snake and vines, entangled in pattern. It seemed appropriate, for occasion, Aziraphale mused.

He appreciated the humanity's creation since earliest days, the power they put in images, overlaid age after age, and only he and Crowley had witnessed all of them. Serpent of Eden, at his side since everything for them started. Ouroboros, or Jörmungandr, as the Norse called it, the cycle with Beginning after the End. He could almost smell Asklepios' herbs and now, with a snake at it's rim, he held Higeia's chalice in his hands.

Crowley's dramatic flair might be showing. Or maybe just his own sigil, his inclination towards healing and growing things, which he would forever deny. But appropriate, nevertheless.

He watched the demon watch liquid swirl in the glass, copper glints caught in his hair, jaw clenched and not at all relaxed like he wanted him to.

"What is bothering you, dear?" 

Crowley nearly snorted, but it would ruin his cultivated doom and gloom.

He felt guilty, plain and simple. Just as he and Aziraphale appeared to be on the same page, apology he never dreamed of hearing (didn’t quite earn) still ringing in his ears, he couldn't just be happy with what he had? Always so greedy. The angel finally wanted him around, it seemed, and now he will go and ruin it, because he has never known how to slow down, even after six thousand years of trying.

But… Only a harmless question or two, right? Nothing wrong with it. He had the right to ask.  
He had already burned for that particular trail of thoughts. He and questions had quite the history.

The fallen angel tightened his hold on wine, to hide his fingers trembling. How else would he get the answers, otherwise?

"So, we're friends now?" Nonchalant act went wasted on one being in the Universe who could, pun intended, read him like a book. That at the moment eyed him coyly. 

"Always were, I'm afraid. Best friends. Even when I did not treat you like one."

The demon leaned back on the sofa, basking in the soft glow, the warmth that words and acknowledgement brought him. Wasn't that enough? Wasn't that what he was ready to perish for, there at the airport? Just why couldn't it be enough now, why couldn't his dumb heart just listen to him? His brain wondered idly if the angel had spent enough time in his car to draw definition of 'best friend' form the Queen lyrics (not that Velvet Underground's was much better). Crowley himself certainly did.

"Right. Sit with me."

He patted the coach next to him and the angel complied easily, moving from the armchair to within his reach.

"On a lighter note, how is that poor fern doing? I didn't damage it beyond help, I hope?"

Crowley promptly choked on his wine.

His plants more, let's say, amenable disposition rose a blush high to his cheeks and eartips. The fern was more then fine. Not that he was complaining. He would take his adoration quota where he could get it.

For some revelations the angel could wait.

Looking for the distraction, he focused on the particles of dust they had been carefully ignoring so far leave traces in his angel's wake. Aziraphale noticed his gaze and swept not-so-invisible pearly lint off his jacket, a faint blush of embarrassment making itself at home in his cheeks. 

"My apologies. I was about to take care of it, but so much had happened it left my mind completely."

Long fingers traced the other's shoulderblade through jacket, where a moulting wing would be.

"It's ok, angel. Don't worry that pretty head of yours. Show me?". He lasted three whole seconds. "No, sorry, forget that. Didn't happen. What I meant is-"

He took a breath to calm himself and it came out a shudder. Head swam with bright panic.  
Would it be enough to send the angel running? Or was whatever they had worth the effort?  
Maybe he overdid it. Again. Sometimes it felt as if he was forcing the issue on purpose, only to be grimly satisfied when he got violently rejected. When he got what he deserved.

Supernatural beings didn't make excuses to touch one another, didn't offer help beyond surface level, and wings were anything but surface, especially beyond their best moments. In Heaven bonded partners groomed one another, but they were so rare, especially after the War and Fall, it was purposefully forgotten showing feathers could be anything other then power statement. In Hell everybody admitted touch generously - the deeper hurt it caused, the better.

A bell rang in Crowleys head at the too-familiar thought pattern. He bit on his forked tongue to stop himself. Wasn't he supposed to have good things, too? Or at least covet them? Ask for them? How long is he going to play this game? Another few millennia? Till another Apocalypse? He cared about Azira, so much. But he couldn't make his choices for him. Lest he could do is clear up whatever it was between them. He owned it to himself, to put himself out of doubt, purgatory, associated misery. He owned it to his angel too.

And what he wanted, right now, was for them to be closer still, as friends, lovers and everything in between. His fingers itched, just thinking about the fluffy down, _Aziraphale's down_, a single plane of reality away. Maybe his big mouth was for once good for something.  
He snapped up, sick with raw nerves but determined and forced their eyes to meet, reptile yellow to cerulean.

"No. I meant exactly what I said."

The confusion in Aziraphale melted as his face lit up. With expression he used to feed Crowley his favorite desserts, delighted and open, he unfurled his wings into existence, spanning over the whole room, bright as fresh snow in the sun, twice as voluptuous with layers of plumage, old and new.

Aziraphale didn't hesitate once, beyond initial shock. It short-circuited something in demon's head, a contradiction to the Law of the Universe that made the world go round.

"Oh, thank you, darling," his angel seemed so flustered, but beyond pleased, even if his blush crawled down his collar in the meantime. "I didn”t dare to presume, you see, but, well, I might have... been dawdling, just a little, while I... I didn't know how to ask you."

"Ngk."

It was too much, all too much at once, of a good thing, and he wanted to flee, before it got ruined. His slit eyes suddenly felt stinging hot, but it must have been all the white in the room and the taste of divine presence that followed. The smell surrounded him, old paper, and bergamot and freshly pressed linen and home.

The angel ruffled the wings lightly in encouragement, looking over his shoulder.

"Go ahead, dear," said the bookkeeper, failing to suppress the impatience and anticipation.

It gave Crowley courage and he rose his fingers towards the wing, skimmed lighter then gossamer over the pin feathers, and snapped right back in terror with a quiet whine.  
For a moment he expected to see his fingerprints set in them. A black taint too deep to ever wash away, forever dirtied by his hand.

Yet, under his palm, unchanged and softer then dandelion tufts, even in their untidy state, Aziraphale's wings took his breath away. (Mainly because they were Aziraphale's.)  
A sharp laugh ripped from his throat, relief mingled with bitter disbelief at his own insecurity that surpassed reason.

"Crowley?"

"It's all good, angel. Just a stupid thought. Your wings are something else, you know that?"  
He carded fingers through them with reverence, allowing the loose feathers to drift onto the carpet, reflecting light. Aziraphale gave a contented sigh.

"Oh, it feels wonderful. You’ll have to try that, dear... No matter how irrelevant, I'd endeavour to listen. I know it wasn't so, I had turned on you when it was the last thing you needed. You're welcome to smack some wit into me, shall I ever slip like that again. I would like you to-... to feel safe to share anything with me."

Guilt welled up in the demon in new waves.

"I'm sorry, angel."

"You're sorry? I shut you down when you came to me with assisted murder or suicide request, Crowley! You needed me and I wasn’t there!"

"But I am sorry! Could have tried to tell you-" the redhead trailed off. Maybe his sorry wasn't enough.

"I wouldn't listen. There was nothing you could do, at the time. I thought it would encourage you, make you more… reckless. Gabriel terrified me, and it was so easy to slap the evil out-of-control demon label on you. Easy and cruel. Just because I know I never had to be afraid of you."

"You should be," trying to process what the angel was saying he snapped on reflex.

Not being feared in Hell was an eternal mockery and torment sentence nobody could afford. Yet, since day one he had been deceiving the angel, hiding all his sharp ugliest edges from sight. He know he was terrible at his job, too rebellious to properly follow rebellion, weak and soft in all the wrong places...but. His angel could probably smite him out of existence before breakfast, but Crowley wasn't what the Principality thought he was, either.

"Aziraphale, the other day. I... it was an accident, I swear. But Hastur dropped by, so suddenly and I had no time. I couldn't think of anything else," he confessed, half-coherent words tumbling out, fingers petting the primaries. 

All he said felt like excuses, but he couldn't help himself, he couldn't stand the angel thinking ill of him. Iller. More ill. Oh, who was he kidding, he was a hot pathetic mess.

"So it was Hastur that had you so troubled. Is Hell after you? And you didn't say anything?" Aziraphale tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, he will give it to him.

"He wasn't! Not really. Wanted me dead, sure, but what's new? I don't think he even meant to be there. He was drunk off his ass, had no idea what he was doing. But I wasn't about to wait. If I had let him off I would be done the next day, you know how it works. That's why..." Crowley inhaled, sharply, hiding face in palm, "...that's why I murdered him. Ripped his throat out."

Azira looked unfazed, if slightly concerned.

"Just discorporated him then, dear. Are you unhurt?"

"It was different with Ligur. It was him or the whole World. Or maybe just me, but... cleaner. "

Crowley himself didn't understand why it even bothered him. Self-defense was his right, but the pure violence of it left him shaken.

"I'm sorry you had to do it, especially all alone, dear. You did good, making sure we will be safe. And thank you, for telling me."

He inhaled sharply at the reassurance he didn't know he needed.

"For all my missteps I'll let your little trip to the church slide... just this one. After you promise it will never happen again. You're fully aware how endlessly stupid that was. As for Hastur... For what's worth dear, I'd happily melt him into sludge not to get a scratch on you. Or the bookshop, even. "

Aziraphale was always quite a bastard, where his things and comforts were concerned. As hedonistic as they come, after all. The random worry popped into his head.

"Hey, angel? Just to be clear, do you offer grooming your wings to all your friends?"

"Crowley!" 

The demon grinned at scandalized note. It sounded properly adorable. His fingers run through fresh blood feathers, close to skin, and he felt the moment a shiver passed it.

"Yes, angel?" he put on his most innocent tone.

"No. Of course not. How could you suggest... I'd never cheat on you!"

Oh. Oh. Well, that was quite alright, wasn't it.

Good thing he didn't need to breathe, anyway.


End file.
